Wherever You Are
by wobbear
Summary: ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going.’ GSR.
1. Chapter 1

**Wherever You are**

**Author:** wobbear

**Rating:** T

**Disclaimer:** I own neither CSI nor the characters, and make no money from my fics.

**Spoilers?:** Yes, folks, it's yet another post-_Living Doll_ fic. Somehow I couldn't resist the idea. I'm spoiler free as regards Season 8.

**Author's notes:** This is a mostly-written WIP─chapters are on the short side, so I aim to post a couple of times a week to make up for that. I'm avoiding other post-LD fics until this is done, so any similarity is unintentional. Thanks muchly to **PhDelicious** for beta reading; all oddities that remain are of course mine. Lastly, I'm aware that I've taken some liberties with the Sara/Mustang miniature.

**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

_**

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**Chapter 1**

_**There is freedom within  
**__**there is freedom without **_

It wasn't much of a view; a few rocks, sparsely scattered joshua trees, creosote bushes and sage brush and a whole lot of sandy desert soil. But it was better than staring at the crumpled red metal of the vehicle's roof or at the two precarious props, each a foot away from either side of her head, which—for now, anyway—kept the car from crushing her.

At least her right arm was free. 'Free?' Ha. _That's a laugh_. Sara forced a feeble giggle. That freedom was relative—it wasn't like the arm was going anywhere without the rest of her.

But it was her other arm that was the real problem. It was numb, nearly drained of blood because her wrist was pulled up, cuffed firmly to the steering wheel. She _could_ feel her shoulder however, and all too well. It was aching acutely, the muscles and tendons stretched tight, fighting dislocation. Though there wasn't enough room for her to sit up and relieve the pressure by changing the angle of her arm, there was just enough play in the chain links that she could turn over. But any movement exacerbated the pain considerably, and risked bumping the props or jogging the car, so she had decided to save position shifts for when she was really, really bored. _Or despairing . . . _

_Enough of that. _

_Got to be positive. _

_So, back to the free arm._ She edged it out cautiously, concentrating on not moving its tethered companion, to see how far she could reach. _Okay_ . . . a little way beyond the menacing bulk of the vehicle which loomed above her. As the first light of day caught on the pale back of her hand, Sara realized she was lucky—in a perverse sort of way—to be shaded by the looming metal bulk. She wouldn't have lasted long in the full glare of the May rays. Highs often topped 90. It was still early, but no matter that her world was way out of whack, she was sure that the sun would keep on rising. _Nothing she could do about that._ However, she _could_ scrabble her fingers in the dirt beside the car, so she did that.

She wondered vaguely about the woman who'd put her in this predicament. The big case of the moment was the miniature serial killer—_but they were practically always men, weren't they? Who knows, the point of this might be to avenge some perceived injustice to a relative. _The woman had addressed her as 'CSI Sidle', but then her name was on her tactical vest. _Had Sara been personally singled out, or was it a random thing like with Nick's experience? Searching for motive always played a part in their investigations, but—here, now—what was the point?_ Whatever her assailant's motivations, Sara was stuck and had to deal with it.

She was really thirsty. She always carried a bottle or two of water in her kit, and a small extra one tucked into her crime scene vest. Her kit was nowhere to be seen, and all her pockets and pouches had been emptied by her captor. Her throat was parched, swallowing painful and her mouth wooly from whatever chemical had been used to knock her out. She longed for a drink.

Before leaving, her abductor had informed her in a detached tone that there was a two-gallon container of drinking water in the trunk of the car and the handcuff key was tied to the handle of the plastic jug. _Such amazing attention to detail. Why?_ All part of the madwoman's plan to make her suffer, Sara supposed. _The plan seemed to be working well so far. _

_Oh, and the props._ It looked like the bits of wood had been carefully positioned so that even a small amount of movement risked dislodging them. Hence Sara's ultra-cautious maneuverings of her free arm. _Or they might just break under the weight of the vehicle. _

_Sometimes knowing a lot about physics could be a bitch_.

_**There's a battle ahead **_

The single desk lamp cast dark shadows and fingers of light, glinting off the curved surfaces of specimen jars and the metal shelving. In the gloom beyond the desk sat Gil Grissom, his chair turned to face the back wall. He appeared to be staring at the mounted tarantula. Certainly his eyes had been pointed in that direction for the past ten minutes.

They were due to have a team meeting shortly, and he was battling to control his swirling emotions. He'd been attempting to do the calming five-minute meditation that Sara had learned from her PEAP counselor. The first try hadn't worked, mostly because he'd found himself picturing Sara when she first taught it to him. _So serene, so beautiful, so unexpectedly his, so alive . . ._

The second attempt had worked better, he thought, until his silly reaction to Catherine's news.

She had knocked gently on his closed office door, letting herself in when he didn't respond. He'd been vaguely aware of her standing there, had known that he should acknowledge her presence.

Finally she spoke. "Uh, Gil, I called Jim. He said he'd be right over."

Startled out of his silence, suddenly animated, he exclaimed, "Why?! No! I--i--it's not a homicide, it's not! It can't be . . ." Trailing off, he glanced over his shoulder, and saw that she was holding up her hands in a defensive pose.

He sagged.

Catherine, understanding, waited him out.

Swiveling his chair around to face her, Grissom took in a deep breath and sighed. "Sorry . . . uh, yeah, calling Jim was a good idea. He's got so many contacts, and a lot of strings he can pull."

"Plus he seems to be the closest thing you've got to a friend." She just managed to stop herself saying, 'Well, except for Sara.'

Grissom looked bleakly up at her. Jittery, she wondered if he was somehow reading her mind.

"You're my friend, aren't you? At least, we used to be friends, didn't we?" He sounded so lost, so confused that Catherine found herself trying to swallow away the big lump which had leapt into her throat.

_This was not good, not at all. No, it was bad, very bad._ Grissom was verging on an existential crisis when Sara's life, and very possibly his own well being, depended on him pulling himself together and applying his brilliant mind to the case. He would never forgive himself if he didn't do his utmost to rescue Sara.

No matter what differences she had had with Grissom—and Sara—in recent times, there was no way that Catherine could or would let him—_them, _she hastily amended—struggle through this alone. He had done so much for her over the years; now it was payback time, whether he liked it or not. She knew that the 'boys' would all rally round to help. The weird little family they'd formed around Grissom would not desert him, or Sara, in their time of need.

_He would have to get a grip. They would help him. _

TBC

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**A/n:** the section headings come from Crowded House's _Don't Dream It's Over_─a great song by Neil Finn. Make of that choice what you will. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** I own neither CSI nor the characters, and make no money from my fics.  
**Spoilers?**: Post-episode _Living Doll_ fic. I'm spoiler free as regards Season 8.  
**Author's notes**: I did wonder if this might be one too many post-_LD_ fics so thanks to all reviewers, and recommenders at the Y, for your support. Continued appreciation to **PhDelicious** for beta reading. She's a star.

**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

**

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**

**Chapter 2**

**_Many battles are lost _**

Time was passing at a snail's pace, not helped by the fact Sara's captor had thoughtfully left a watch with her, so that she could "see how slowly time passes when no-one comes to save you". Sara recalled the woman's momentary annoyance when she'd realized Sara wasn't sporting a timepiece—_why should she, she usually got the time from her phone_. The young woman had unstrapped her own battered Seiko and stuffed it into one of the higher pockets on Sara's vest.

So she knew what the time was. _Big whoop._ All she could do was space out her time checks, which were only feeding her obsession with thirst. _Ignoring it wasn't working. Maybe she should stop fighting the thoughts, and go with it for a while._

_So . . . her last drink had been . . . when?_

_Okay—thinking back, green tea when she got up, then coffee (and breakfast) with Grissom after he in turn awoke, a gulp or two from the sports bottle she kept in her car on the way to work._ It was now—she permitted herself a peek at the watch— 5:35 am. _No! It couldn't be_ . . . only seven hours since her last drink. She checked the time again; she was starting to panic.

_No. _

She wasn't going to let that happen. Pursing her lips and setting her jaw with determination, Sara tamped down the creeping rise of fear, breathing deeply, deliberately to quiet her thumping pulse.

_So, it had been seven hours. Seven very long hours. It was what it was. Worrying about that wouldn't do any good. _

_Time to think about something else, anything else. _

_Oh, yeah. Her._ She'd left Sara with the wristwatch, but taken everything in her pockets and even her bootlaces. _What did she think, that Sara would want to strangle herself instead of waiting for a rescue? Pretty hard to do with only one free hand anyway_, she surmised._ Far quicker to just jostle a prop and let the car drop. Okay, maybe that wasn't a great line of thought. But, hey, at least it rhymed. _Whatever, she wasn't going to do that.

She really needed to think of something else.

**_Only shadows ahead _**

"Look, Cath, this is like déjà vu for him. We've gotta think of how to handle it for him. Nick's trying to be all cool, calm and collected, but he looks like a deer caught in the headlights when he thinks nobody's watching." Making his point, Warrick leaned forward in one of Catherine's visitors' chairs, pressing his palm firmly onto her desk.

"When did you ever see a deer, Vegas boy?" No sooner had she snapped than Catherine raised her hand in apology. "Okay, sorry, not the point." She knew her reaction seemed out of place, but they were all on edge.

Understanding her strain, Warrick sat back, pretending to relax. "Well maybe a burro in the headlights . . . no, I got it, a roadrunner." He smirked faintly at her, trying to ease the tension. Needing a change, Catherine moved from her desk chair to sit in the empty seat beside him. Shrugging, she sighed gustily. He patted her gently on the shoulder and got a wan smile of thanks in return.

She had retreated to her office for a brief break, trying to calm her racing thoughts, while they waited for Brass to arrive. Warrick had drifted in a few moments later.

Taking a deep breath, Catherine squared her shoulders and said decisively, "Right. We need to find Nick something to do, something in the lab that he can focus his mind on."

"Do ya think . . ." Warrick paused, shaking his head, "Nah, probably not."

"No, c'mon, I've got no ideas. What were you thinking?"

"Uh, well . . . going over the, um, car miniature with a fine-toothed comb. I don't see how it's going to give us any clues on how to find her, but we can't _not_ look at it."

"Yeah, yes, good." Catherine rubbed her chin with her thumb and index finger as she reflected on the idea. Pointing the finger in the air she agreed, "Yes, you're right. And if we put Hodges with him, suitably briefed, to 'look for trace', he can keep an eye on Nick."

"Hah—and if Hodges is true to form, he'll be so annoyingly intense that Nick's more likely to feel irritated than handled."

"But if there's something to find, one of them will find it. And if that doesn't work, if Hodges reports that Nick is freaking out, we'll have to go to Plan B."

"Plan B?" queried Warrick.

"Wai-wa-wait, don't rush me." Catherine waved her hands in a panicky stop sign. "I'll come up with something if I have to."

Warrick fixed a long, cool, green gaze on her and nodded confidently. "I know you will."

She smiled feebly and fiddled with a jagged fingernail.

"So . . ." Warrick raised a querying eyebrow. "Grissom and Sara. Did you know, or even suspect?"

"Hell, I don't even know if they're together. He's loved her for—it seems like forever. I just never thought he'd admit it to himself, let alone anyone else."

Behind them, a soft tap sounded on the glass beside the partly-open door. Turning they saw the solid comforting sight of Jim Brass, trying and failing to smile.

With forced joviality he declared, "Hey, enough of the intimate huddle! Time for the team meeting." He paused, clenching his fists at his sides, all pretence of levity gone. "Let's go find our girl."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** I own neither CSI nor the characters, and make no money from my fics.  
**Spoilers?**: Post-episode to _Living Doll_.  
**Author's notes**: It's a really good idea to re-watch an episode if you base a story on it – or at least make sure you have an excellent beta. **PhDelicious** has caught some glaring mistakes. Thank you!

**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**_You'll never reach the end of the road_**

Sara was wondering what the scene looked like from an observer's perspective. _If someone just happened to be passing through this particular bit of desert, what would they see?_

The basic arid scenery she could picture. _Easy._ And a car, artfully plonked upside down in a lumpy part of the Mojave. _A beat up red car._

_What was it about a red car? _She remembered something, not long ago, a case—a totaled car, in an alley behind some bar. _A Mustang, wasn't it? _

_Yeah, that could be the car. But why? God knows. That's a silly phrase. Maybe God knows, but does he care? He's sure as hell not telling me why I've ended up here. _

_Anyway, back to the view._ The only other thing that Sara could think of to add to the picture for that mythical passerby was, occasionally, a hand. _A long fingered, bony-slender hand, reaching, reaching . . . _

_Reaching for what?_ It was more like feeble twitching, her forlorn scrabblings in the dirt.

_No. _

_NO. _

She was verging on pathetic again. Sara Sidle did not _do_ pathetic. She wouldn't allow it.

All right, maybe once or twice she had, but with Gil there to hold her these days, somehow it didn't seem so weak. Sometimes he managed to cajole her into leaning on him, saying it wasn't often that she let him help, and it made him feel good when she did. "Letting me look after you makes me happy."

Wuss that she was, she'd accepted that line, only later realizing how well he had played her. Sara Sidle, so strong, so self-sufficient, so fiercely independent, always wanted to help others ahead of herself. For that, he had another line: "Looking after yourself isn't being selfish."

_Oh damn._ The only moisture left in her body seemed to be leaking out from her eyes. _What a waste of precious liquid. That quirky entomologist could be so sweet sometimes. Who knew? Sara Sidle, that's who knew. _

_What was it with her, repeating her full name all the time? _

It continued like this for a while, her thoughts jerkily jumping from tear-tugging memories to pondering why she was thinking whatever random thoughts she was thinking, back to thinking of Grissom and wishing, hoping, thinking, praying.

_Wait, there's a song that goes like that, isn't there? How does it go? 'Planning and dreaming each night of his charms . . .'_ For so many years that could've been her song, only she'd never heard it until Grissom had put on the old Dionne Warwick CD he'd inherited from his aunt.

_Grissom. Gil._ It still occasionally stunned her how well they fit together, how each filled a need in the other. She knew he felt it too. Sometimes he would just stop what he was doing, feather touch her arm or face with a tender caress, smile his sweet smile and then, his need for contact satisfied for the moment, go back to work, the dishes, whatever he was doing.

_But he wasn't here now, and she had to hold it together._ He'd said, "Looking after yourself isn't being selfish."

_Not much I can do for myself right now, huh, Gil? _

Sara pictured him, imagined his pellucid blue eyes fixed on her, his brow creased in thought as he considered his answer. She saw him leaning forward, taking her hand and making her fingers stroke his face in that way he did, then turning his head to kiss her palm. And she heard him reply, "Hold onto hope, honey. Wherever you are, we'll find you. Wait for me."

She had waited for Grissom before. _That had worked out, eventually._ She could wait again.

**_When you're traveling with me _**

"So, uh, Rick, would you mind gathering up the boys and we'll meet in the break room?" Warrick gave him a thumbs-up and left the room, before Brass belatedly realized he was trying to take charge, as if he were still head of the unit. That was years ago, but it seemed like yesterday. _It was sure coming naturally today._ He shook his head in self-admonition. _He was talking about them like they were his kids._ The age lines were a bit blurred, but he ran with the thought. _Did that mean that Catherine was his slightly vampy younger sister and Grissom his geeky brother?_

"Hey, Jim, thanks for coming so quickly."

She did look pleased to see him. That was something.

He rubbed his stubbly face with one hand, and held up the other. "Uh, hey, I'm not trying to take over, but, uh, we need to meet, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, don't worry about it. I don't know how Grissom's going to be, so I welcome any help and leadership you can give." Her worried smile confirmed her words.

"Uh, okay, good." Brass leaned against the edge of her desk, and looked down at her.

"Um, you need to know that Grissom said something about him and Sara, about her being the only person he had ever loved. I--I don't know exactly what the story is, what's going on between them, but, uh, well, I'm not sure how effective he's going to be. I know it was a team effort that got Nick back but he, and Sara, played really vital roles in that. Now we've got to find her, and I'm not certain that Grissom will be able to bring his best game."

"Hmmm." Brass tilted his head and murmured, "In times of great stress the truth will out."

Brass's enigmatic comment floated past Catherine, then she replayed it in her head and blurted, "Whuh!! You knew?!"

"Uh, yeah." Brass waggled his head a bit as he pondered what to say. "Remember last year when Grissom had to go to Carson City, that body with bugs found on the shore of Lake Tahoe? You were busy with a weird double murder at Caesar's—"

"Oh, uh, last fall?"

"Yeah, and I worked a case at Summerlin with Sara. Well, one thing led to another, and he basically admitted they were together."

"Huh." The blond raised her eyebrows and shook her head slowly, amazed. "Wow, they've kept it completely under my radar, and I thought my sensors were pretty good. D'you know how long . . .?"

"Eh, I dunno, not really, but I get the feeling it's been a while." He shrugged and then narrowed his eyes. "Look, this can't be a subject for general discussion. They're both very private people . . ."

"And we need to focus on finding Sara. Don't worry Jim, I'll make sure there's no idle gossip." Her look of focused determination left no room for doubt.

They nodded in unison and stared silently at each other, until a knock on the door frame broke their mutual trance.

The door edged wider open, pushed by a rubber tip, then a metal crutch came into view and finally the stocky figure of the Chief Medical Examiner was revealed. He smiled sadly at them as he said, "Bad news travels fast."

TBC

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**A/n:  
**_Wishing and Hoping_ was written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David way back in 1963.  
Shameless plug time: the events that Brass talked about happened in my fic _The Better Part.  
_Thank you for reading. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear

**Rating:** T

**Disclaimer:** I own neither CSI nor the characters, and make no money from my fics.

**Spoilers?**: Post-episode to _Living Doll_.

**Author's notes**: Even by my standards, this is a short chapter; the next one will be up on Wednesday. **PhDelicious** is a great beta, but responsibility for any oddness in the use of italics is mine : )

**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

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**Chapter 4**

**_Now I'm walking again . . . _**

Catherine had left him a few minutes ago, saying, "Look, Jim'll be here soon. One of us will come and get you when everyone's gathered."

She paused, uncharacteristically hesitant. "Are you . . . will you be. . . all right?"

Grissom planted his hands on his desk, then flexed his fingers in an attempt to stretch away the cramping tension. He stared at the knuckles as they articulated, biting the insides of his cheeks. After a moment, he steeled himself to look up. "Yeah. I have to. Sara's life is in the balance. I have no choice."

Catherine nodded in sympathy. She reached over to touch his closest hand then took her leave.

**_. . . to the beat of a drum _**

Grissom sat slumped in his chair in somber silence, trying to focus his thoughts. His head rested in his right hand, elbow propped on the chair arm. With thumb and middle finger he kneaded his temples, trying to dissipate the tension that throbbed in his skull.

He _had_ to believe that Sara was alive. That twitching hand in the miniature scene, terrible as it seemed, was a positive sign. And Davis was definite that she hadn't killed Sara. However, deluded psychopaths were hardly the most reliable sources of information.

_But . . . no . . . he couldn't bear . ._ _. No, forget that._ This was no time for existential anguish.

_Sara. Sara._ It still occasionally stunned him how well they fit together, how each filled a need in the other. He knew she felt it too. Sometimes she would just stop what she was doing, tilt her head and shoot him a heart-warming grin. Or, walking past, she would ruffle his hair, or caress the nape of his neck, then continue on her way.

She was strong, so resilient. She had endured so much already, and come out of it stronger—he knew he could count on her to pull through this too.

_I need you to hold on for me, Sara. _

Leaning back in his chair, Grissom closed his gritty eyes and pictured her at breakfast last evening, trying to get him to eat yogurt and granola, laughing as she shoved a loaded spoon at him.

She wouldn't give up.

Neither could he.

_Hold onto hope, honey. Wherever you are, we'll find you. Wait for me. _

**_Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup _**

Her thoughts were wandering again. _Good for you, thoughts! I can barely move, you go wander wherever you like. _

_A touch delirious there maybe? Well, fine. Who cares. Be nice if she could sleep instead of having stupid wandering thoughts though._

At last Sara drifted into a doze. Coming to, she did a watch check. Some time had passed without her noticing. _Yay._

_But why wasn't it getting lighter?_ If her memory served her correctly, it was actually darker than before. _Bizarre._

_Or had she slept through the day, and it was now 8pm? A 24-hour clock would come in handy about now. _

As she lay there, shifting uneasily in the endless search for a more comfortable spot, she felt something brush her cheek, cool her neck. A breath of wind ruffled the still air. Then another.

A sudden loud spattering startled her. Shaking off the shock, Sara peered out. _Rain. Large drops of rain. _There weren't many at first, then the dark clouds above redoubled their efforts and released a serious shower.

Staring at her limited view, she hoped none would trickle her way. She was uncomfortable enough already. _Don't want to be in a puddle as well._

_Wait! _

_Stupid, stupid!_ She'd been obsessing about not having water for so long and yet now that there was rain she wasn't doing anything.

_She had a hand, a sort-of-free hand._ Stretching out her arm, Sara cupped her fingers to capture the heaven-sent drink. Pulling it back in oh-so-carefully, she managed to lose only about half of it. Sipping slowly, savoring the precious fluid, she rolled it around her mouth before swallowing the tiny amount the mucous membrane hadn't thirstily soaked up. Wiping the remaining moisture off on her lips and brow, she eagerly snaked her arm out to gather more.

_One thing about Vegas. It didn't rain much, but when it did, you generally got a doozy of a downpour._ As long as it kept coming down, Sara kept drinking.

Water had never tasted so good. Pity she didn't have a bottle, or better a large bowl to hoard some in. Ah well. _You can't always get what you want. _Thinking about Mick Jagger's ridiculous lips whiled away a moment or three. Then it was back to same-old, same-old, trying to think of something positive.

_Wonder if they've realized I'm missing yet? _

_Whoops. Bit negative there. _

She was trapped on an emotional rollercoaster, and there seemed to be a disproportionate number of down slopes.

_Try again _. . .

Of course they had.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and the characters are not mine and never will be.  
**Spoilers?**: Post-episode to _Living Doll_.  
**Author's notes**: Continued kudos to **PhDelicious** for her beta work.  
**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

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**Chapter 5**

**_They come, they come _**

The team was gathering in the break room. Al Robbins didn't pretend that he'd be able to help find Sara, but perhaps he could be a steadying influence, a sounding board. Whatever they needed, he would do. _Medical assistance maybe?_ He still knew how to tend to the living. He offered up a brief prayer that they wouldn't need a coroner's services.

He'd taken a seat near the coffee machine and was dispensing drinks as the group trickled in.

_Fancy Gil having finally taken the plunge with Sara._ He'd have put money on the guy ending up a lonely bachelor, wedded to his work. Further proof, thought Al, that he was best off staying out of casinos. Al was torn—thrilled that maybe the couple had been able to experience the happiness he knew with his own beloved wife, the meeting of minds, bodies and souls; and dismayed that a disturbed criminal might have ripped them asunder, so soon, far too soon.

Nearly everyone was there. Jim Brass put his head through the door, looked around and departed again after a brief wave in Robbins' direction.

---------------

A cautiously cleared throat was followed by a soft, "Hey, Gil" as Brass slipped into the room. Grissom looked up to meet Brass's eyes as he plunked himself down in a chair. He was feeling calmer now; the hope that he'd been projecting toward Sara seemed to have bounced back from her through the ether, buoying him up.

Brass glanced anxiously at Grissom, then lowered his head briefly as he rubbed his hands briskly on his thighs. Looking back up, he cleared his froggy throat again and said, "Uh, Gil. It's Sara, I know. But we'll all work our hardest to find her, to get her back safe. You've gotta trust in that."

Grissom looked steadily at his friend, and nodded. "I have to. I do. I'm holding onto that." He chewed on his bottom lip briefly then asked, "Is it time?"

"Time? Oh, uh, yeah, just about everyone's there. We can wait a bit, or we . . ."

"No, let's go. I've been hiding in here long enough."

---------------

Unusually, the fingerprint, DNA, ballistics and QD techs were included in the gathering. They hovered at the back, their pleasure at being involved mitigated by the upsetting circumstances.

Brass soon returned, with Grissom in tow. The latter was a little pale, but composed. Grissom put down the mug he'd been clutching before silently shaking Robbins' hand as he sat beside him.

Shortly afterward, Catherine bustled in, with a hesitant Archie Johnson following in her wake.

The light murmur in the room suddenly dropped away. 'Oh gawd,' thought Al. 'The gang's all here.' The angular frame of the assistant lab director stood in the doorway.

Jim Brass stood up and spoke. "Uh, Conrad, thanks for getting here so quickly."

**_Hey now _**

She remembered.

It had been a slow Tuesday; the criminals of Las Vegas seemed to have taken the night off. Warrick and Nick were out on the only case—a likely suicide—Catherine was off prior to giving evidence in court the next day. Grissom was preparing for a budget meeting, and Greg was somewhere in the lab.

Sara had been heading to the break room for a coffee refill, trying to kick-start her concentration. The cold cases on Grissom's fish board deserved her fullest mental acuity.

"See, it's tiny!" Archie's eager tone caught her ear and she paused in the doorway of the A/V lab.

_So that's where Greg had gotten to. _The object in question was in the palm of Archie's hand and Greg was leaning in close, fascinated. "Wow, it's about the size of a stick of gum."

"Yeah, neat, huh?"

"But," Greg squinted thoughtfully at Archie. "Doesn't it need a power source to emit the signal?"

"Sure, and that's the _really_ cool thing. It's got one of those super thin batteries built in, you know like in those flat, credit-card sized flashlights?"

"What, it runs on some form of lithium?"

"Uh, I've been meaning to ask my cousin. I mean, I know it works . . ."

"Hey, guys, whatcha got?"

Raising his head from their huddle, Archie held the item lengthwise between thumb and forefinger. "This, Sara, is a personal GPS locator beacon."

She frowned at him, not quite disbelieving, but the thing was _so_ small. And it was perfectly possible that Archie and Greg were just having a bit of fun with her.

"Ooh-kay . . . and you have this why?"

"Oh, my cousin works for the company in Los Gatos that makes them. He gave me a few to see if I could convince the lab to buy some."

"Ha! What for? So we can find CSIs when they get lost on their way to a scene?"

Greg shrugged; it didn't sound like a bad idea to him. He'd never been great at reading maps and the county wouldn't spring for OnStar in the CSI trucks.

"Weeeell," Archie grinned a bit sheepishly. "I haven't totally worked out my sales pitch yet. But I figure if I can convince Grissom we need some, the other shift supervisors will be a cinch, and together they'll argue Ecklie into agreement."

Sara nodded, pursing her lips, considering. He was right about Grissom being the key.

"Anyway," Archie continued, "I've got some samples—you wanna try one?"

"Yeah, you could be a test user for the lab," suggested Greg.

"I can't see we'd have much call for them, but it's not like it's big or cumbersome." Sara stepped into the lab to stand beside the two eager-faced young men. "In fact," she peered more closely at the thin strip, "It's about the size of my name badge on my vest—you know, the thing with all the pockets."

"Hmm, you're right," Archie encouraged.

"Huh—I could probably snip some stitching, slip it in, and sew it into place."

"Yeah, that'd work." Archie nodded enthusiastically. "Then we could do some field tests when you're at far-flung crime scenes, stuff like that."

"I'm up for one too," volunteered Greg. "Might need some help with the sewing though." He looked what he hoped was appealingly at Sara. Despite the fact she always rebuffed or ignored his advances, he clung to the hope that one day she would see him as potential dating material.

She grinned, unmoved. "I'll lend you a needle."

Sara had left shortly after that clutching her Wrigley widget, as Greg had dubbed it, after taking in the easy instructions on how to activate it. Archie had carefully noted down the serial number, immediately emailing his cousin so that it could be logged as "in service—testing".

She had remembered.

Had they?

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and the characters—not mine, never will be.  
**Spoilers?**: Post-episode to _Living Doll_.  
**Author's notes**: I delayed posting this chapter because I'm still trawling through all the great geekfiction ficathon entries. But I want to get a couple up before I go on vacation at the end of the week, so here we go again.  
I keep thanking beta **PhDelicious** because she just keeps right on deserving it. Anything silly, it's all me.  
**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

* * *

**  
Chapter 6**

**_In the paper today _**

The rainstorm had passed. Thirst slaked for now, Sara contemplated her restricted little universe. It was funny how, as soon as she dealt with one problem, another one stepped up to take its place.

She was hungry. She found herself craving a Nutter Butter cookie, in fact an entire packet of them. _Or possibly a Twinkie. Or ten._ She wondered vaguely why she was regressing to her childhood favorites.

Although she hadn't eaten either for years, she well recalled how she always needed a drink to wash the sugary goo down. And then she started wondering when she'd get her next drink. _Back to the drink thing, yet again. Sheesh._

Even if she was prepared to consider eating some of Grissom's insect friends, the few she had seen had snuck by tantalizingly out of reach. She'd heard something snake-like slither past her head while it was still dark, but no way was she ready yet to consider adding raw reptile to her diet. _Why not think about Twinkies some more? It's not like I've got anything else to do._

That was another funny thing. Thinking about her situation in the abstract, she would've expected to feel more scared, more angst-ridden. _If one should happen, in an idle moment, to conjure up the scenario: _weirdo madwoman knocks you out and takes you out to the desert, traps you under a car with nothing to eat or drink, in imminent danger of being crushed—_how would you feel? _Truth really was stranger than fiction. Never in a lifetime of idle conjecturing would she have come up with this.

It was hard to say how she felt, even now. Bored and uncomfortable seemed to be the principal adjectives that sprang to mind. However, being honest with herself for a moment, Sara admitted that she was trying very hard not to think about the larger picture. Frankly, it was depressing. It was easier to think about the smaller stuff. _Hey, you're bored and uncomfortable, so what? You've experienced worse. _

Sara still had some questions about her abductor. _Who was she? Why did she take me? Why did she put me here? Why am I still alive? Will she come back later and finish me off? _

Nick had been randomly unlucky. It could've been any one of them in that box. But this car thing, if Sara's theory was correct, meant it was about her. _Or_—_who else was at that scene? _

Grissom.

_Griss. Are you OK? _

_No, he has to be OK. Scratch that thought. _

Sara sighed. The action turned into a choking cough as she breathed in too deeply, and dusty particles irritated her throat.

_Griss, give me a hand here. I could really use your help. See, you should be happy. I'm readily admitting that I can't do this all by myself._

The surge of the emotional rollercoaster returned. Scrunching her eyes fiercely, Sara tried to will it away. She swallowed convulsively to quell the sobs rising in her throat.

_Time out. _

She thought about trying that five-minute meditation. _After all, it had even worked for Grissom, despite his supreme skepticism. Maybe if I do it over and over again I'll get super relaxed and go to sleep._

_Yeah, _she thought._ Oblivion would be nice right about now. _

_Start with ten slow, deep breaths. One, two, three . . . _

**_Tales of war and of waste _**

". . . four, five, six—we'll count you as an honorary CSI, Captain Brass. So, six CSIs and" — Ecklie surveyed the remainder of the determined group crowded around the breakroom table— "assorted specialists. If you need more bodies, uh, people, Grissom, just give me the word. And Brass, you can call in more from PD, can't you?"

Brass was already on his cell phone with Sofia Curtis, arranging precisely that, so he waggled an affirmative hand.

"All right, I'll delay you no longer. I'm going from here to meet with the Sheriff; he'll be making a statement to the press soon. Speaking of the media, let's make sure they end up with a good news story to report." Ecklie's pager bleeped; glancing down at it, he turned off the noise and continued, "Right, I'm out of here. Good luck, everyone." He rose decisively from his seat, looked around the room one last time and nodded as he left.

"What! He's only concerned about how the department looks?!" Nick's nervous indignation turned his final words into a squeak.

Doc Robbins heaved himself up from his chair and motioned Nick into a quiet corner. "Hey, Nick, in this case, don't we all want a good news story?" He looked steadily at the younger man, waiting for his common sense to kick in.

Nick mentally replayed the exchange, and hung his head in embarrassment. "Uh, yeah, I see what you mean. I guess . . . I'm not used to thinking that Ecklie has a heart, you know?"

That wasn't the real reason, they both knew that, but it would do for now.

Brass pressed the end button and closed his phone. He waved to attract attention, then started. "Hey, people, before we scatter, I want to mention something. When we brought Davis in, we made her empty her pockets, per procedure. Among the mess of hair elastic, crumpled Kleenex, etcetera was a tiny set of handcuffs—_really_ tiny like, uh, half an inch—with what looked like a couple of bits of wooden toothpick wedged in the, uh, wrist holes. I dunno what it means, or if it means anything, but there it is." He shrugged. "Keep it in mind?"

--------------

Greg and Archie had ended up sitting side by side through the meeting. Grissom had distributed everyone's initial assignments in the Sara search, and they were itching to get started. As Ecklie's closing pep talk droned on, Greg found his eyes being drawn to the Mustang miniature, which had been moved from Grissom's office, a stop-off on its way to trace and close inspection by Nick and Hodges. Someone had turned off the micro-motor so the tiny hand was no longer twitching. The car was back in its original position, but from their spot at the end of the table, they could see the top part of the small figure that represented Sara—dark hair, dark crime scene vest—and the rear end of the car. Ecklie sounded like he was wrapping it up now; _good, they could get to work on finding her_.

_Wait a second__. . . crime scene vest. _

_Maybe, just maybe_. Greg nudged Archie. Pointing to his own right chest, he traced a rough rectangle with his fore finger—twice, while Archie stared with a 'what the fuck' look on his face. "Badge", Greg mouthed to the A/V tech, making the rectangle sign again. "Wrigley widget!" he whispered. Archie frowned, not getting it, as Ecklie exited.

Greg seized the opportunity and muttered forcefully, "The stick of gum! Y'know, the GPS locator thingy. Has she still got it?"

Archie's face lit up, suddenly hopeful. He put up a finger to forestall further comment as he thought it through. "Well, um, she never gave it back, and she's always good about returning things once she's done with them. And, uh, the last time we tested it was April Fool's day, when she was out at Red Rock; it was working then."

Around them, the others were getting ready to leave, gathering cups and papers.

TBC

* * *

**A/n: **I just noticed that today is my anniversary—I posted the first chapter of my first ever fic on ffnet a year ago today. Yay me. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and the characters are not mine, never will be.  
**Spoilers?**: Post-episode to _Living Doll_.  
**Author's notes**: This is a short chapter; I'll try to get the next one up later today to tide you over my vacation. Thank you muchly to **PhDelicious** for the beta. And thanks to you for reading!  
**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

* * *

**  
Chapter 7**

**_When the world comes in _**

"Grissom!"

The man in question was headed out the door of the break room.

"Hey, Grissom!" Greg's raised voice and wildly waving arms eventually got through to Grissom's consciousness.

"What?" he snapped, perturbed. While Ecklie had been going on, Grissom had managed to get back into a mindset where he could work and might be useful to Sara. The interruption threatened his delicate equilibrium and he feared he might not be able to claw it back.

"Uh, Archie has, might have, something." Greg nudged the A/V tech.

Focusing properly on the young men, Grissom noticed their nervous tension. He was aware that some of the junior staff felt intimidated talking to him, but he'd thought Greg, at least, was past that. _Wait—this was different._ He squinted in concentration. _These two had a . . . bizarre air of optimism about them._

He silently counted to five and said, "Yes?"

Grissom listened avidly as Archie, stammering a little at first, explained. The tech wrapped up by mentioning possible problems: "She needs to be wearing the vest, have the locator turned on, it needs to be working . . ."

Archie was starting to depress himself when Grissom interjected, "She's only got one vest, we all do. Ecklie doesn't understand about needing spares for when they get dirty . . ."

"Yeah, he seems to think . . . nah, I don't even want to try imagine what Ecklie thinks. Turns out to be a lucky break." Greg risked a tentative grin.

"Hold on—you never mentioned this trial to me because . . .? No, forget it, doesn't matter." Grissom made for the door and beckoned them impatiently. Greg and Archie scrambled to their feet and hurriedly followed; it became apparent that they were going to the A/V lab. En route, Grissom belatedly thought to ask, "Archie, can you check on it from here, or do you have to get in touch with your cousin, someone in the company?"

"Uh, I can do it from here; we did it that way to make the testing easier." The fact that he had an 'borrowed' identity to log into EyeSpy's network was something he thought the boss didn't need to know. Archie had been about to talk to the nightshift supervisor about the trial when Grissom had caught him playing World of Warcraft on a lab computer, during work hours, both big no-nos. He'd been working over several months to re-establish Grissom's trust in him.

**_A wall between us _**

The smell was getting to Sara. Not a hint of breeze stirred to refresh her stuffy airspace. The growing heat of the day stoked the unpleasant odors which surrounded her in a malevolent cloud. It was a mixture of oil, hot dust, body odor and, the real pisser as far as Sara was concerned, bodily fluids. A downside of drinking the rain had been the inevitable need to relieve the building pressure in her bladder. After much careful wriggling to lower her jeans and panties then shifting her lower half over to one side as much as possible, the deed had been done. Afterward she'd struggled through the same motions in reverse—no mean feat one-handed and when a wrong move could bring the car down on her—and now had the added discomfort of gritty dirt on her rear and thighs.

Even now, she was trying to joke with herself but it was becoming harder and harder to keep her spirits up. Morbid thoughts about gangrene setting into her trapped arm jangled in her head, along with memories of Zoë Kessler, who'd chewed off her own hand in a failed escape bid. No matter how strong her will to live, self-mutilation simply was not something that Sara wanted to consider. She'd made it this far in one piece; if this was where it had to end, she wanted to face it sound in body and spirit.

But, oh, the relief when she'd realized that it was impossible for her to get a decent angle to bite her wrist.

A sudden thought struck her; she unzipped and wriggled out of the vest. It ended up draped around her cuffed arm. Very carefully turning as far as she could, Sara used her free hand to shove out the part with her name badge on it, as far away from the body of the car as she could. The locator had tested fine with her sitting inside a Denali, but they'd never tried it _underneath_ a vehicle. _Got to give them—and me—the best possible chance._

Sara still had questions: had she turned on her GPS locator properly? Was it working? Had anyone besides her even thought of it? Many questions—no answers. _Whatever, she had done all she could._

She had faith that Grissom and the team would do everything possible to find her, but they were only human. Wonderful, warm, brilliant human beings, but only human nonetheless. They were her only hope. She was desperately holding onto that hope, but reality was biting and gnawing at her resilience.

_Grissom, where are you? I'm still waiting. _

Sara's throat convulsed as she fought to dispel the hollow ache of despair. She clenched her free fist tightly, fingernails biting into her palm.

_Please don't be too late. _

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** CSI and the characters are not mine, never will be.  
**Spoilers?**: Post-episode to _Living Doll_.  
**Author's notes**: You won't be shocked to read that **PhDelicious** beta'd this chapter too. Enjoy!  
**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

* * *

**  
Chapter 8**

**_You'll never reach the end of the road _**

The lack of wind meant that it was quiet.

Silent, it was not. Sporadic squeaks, scratches and rustling bore witness to the small fauna in the vicinity, and occasionally an antelope ground squirrel crossed Sara's field of vision, its white tail held close over its back as it darted about. A succession of insects came into view, only to flit away in a second or two. They would have been more interesting, a bit, if she were able to identify them. But she needed Grissom for that. _Damn_. She needed Grissom, period.

Luckily she dozed off again for a while, rather than dwelling on that thought. Sara started dreaming about the DVD she'd bought Grissom for his last birthday, _500 Insects of the Southwestern Deserts_. Somehow the sound got muted whenever the voiceover was about to identify one of the bugs she'd seen recently. 'Hey, not fair!' she wanted to yell. 'I need to know!' Gradually in her restless sleep she came to realize that she was dreaming; relaxing at last, she watched the weird parade of tiny creatures dance across her subconscious.

When she came to again, she was still thinking about that documentary. On opening the gift, Grissom had loftily asked "what about the other 10,000-plus other desert-dwelling species?"—all the while grinning delightedly and slipping the disc into the player. Although she hadn't expected him to learn anything new from it, he had looked thrilled that she had sought it out and—most importantly—was prepared to watch it with him, despite an utter lack of interest in small arthropods. She had been delighted to see him so pleased; in fact, the couple of hours watching insects, with added commentary from a fascinated Grissom, had been surprisingly fun.

Unfortunately, the only insects Sara could remember from the 500 were ones that she really didn't want to see in her own personal hell hole. Although the five-inch long Nevada Hairy Scorpion and the Velvet Ant had interesting names, their stings would not be pleasant. That part, she remembered.

Sara was now drifting in and out of full consciousness, the lack of water and the heat taking their toll. In a way it was a relief not to be fully aware all the time, but in her more lucid moments her stubborn will railed against slipping away, demanding that she "hold on, dammit". _She couldn't be meant to go this way, she couldn't._ As dry sobs racked her, Sara turned her head listlessly toward a low scrabbling noise, and was grateful for the distraction.

A bird. A little bird was scratching under the nearby bushes, hopping from spot to spot. Occasionally it reached up to strip a leaf or two off the sage brush, but mostly it dug around with its claws, kicking up tiny clouds of dust as it found something to eat—_insects, seeds?_—Sara couldn't tell. She stretched out her hand and scrabbled around in the dirt, attracting the bird's attention. It hopped over, apparently fearless, and investigated the patch that she had stirred up. It stuck around for ages, frequently ducking into one of the brushy clumps until Sara decided he or she must be feeding a mate on their nest. _Or chicks, but if so the babies were very quiet. _It was just a little grey bird going about its business, but somehow it cheered Sara up no end. "Pity you're not a carrier pigeon though," she whispered as the perky creature looked at her, head cocked, as if trying to figure out why she was there. _Hey, if you work it out, let me know, will ya?_

**_I'm counting the steps . . . _**

In the silent A/V lab, Archie was working his way through the EyeSpy site's layers of security. Grissom and Greg were hovering at either shoulder, watching as patiently as possible. Nervous anticipation hung in the air.

Greg glanced over at Grissom, marveling at the older man's composure. Then something made him look past the impassive face and he noted Grissom's steadying feet wide-apart stance, the bunched fists shifting inside his pant's pockets, the deep, deliberate breathing and the rigid set of his jaw. And the eyes—_wow, his eyes_ —Grissom's eyes were an intense steely dark blue, focused laser-like on Archie's screen.

It was almost mesmerizing. Then and there Greg realized that he had no earthly chance with Sara; she was with Grissom, and that was clearly that. He shrugged ruefully and looked back at the screen.

_Wait a minute!_ Greg mentally slapped himself. _This isn't over yet, not by a long way. What if the GPS locator doesn't work?_

"Hey, uh, some maps might come in handy. Um, in terms of range, we're looking at about four hours from when we think Sara was abducted to the time Davis clocked in for her shift, which was about 15 minutes before she put the miniature in your office, right, Grissom?"

Grissom nodded, "Yeah, that's the ballpark timing."

Calculating further, Greg continued, "If she already had the Mustang in situ, she still had to take Sara out there, and get all the way back—say 50 miles an hour absolute max to allow for traffic and rough going in the desert?" Greg looked at the others and got an approving nod from Grissom. "Less if she took Sara out while towing the wreck or with it, say, on a flat-bed truck."

"Yeah, that'd be slower," piped up Archie.

"So, a maximum range of 100 miles. Okay, I'll go get maps from QD to cover that area." Greg barreled out of the room and along the corridor. Bursting into the quiet hush of Questioned Documents, he blurted, "Maps! I need maps!"

Startled by the intrusion, the new QD tech looked up from the tattered title deed that she was examining under UV light. Aware of the crisis, she forgave the abrupt approach.

"Uh, Greg, isn't it?"

"Yeah, sorry," he panted, breathless from his adrenaline rush. He swiped a wayward strand of hair away from his eye as he continued, "Uh, you're . . . sorry, I know we've been introduced, but . . ."

"Alison Lang, Ali."

"Ali." A fleeting grin brightened Greg's face; she was cute. "That's right, 'Ali'. Um, we need maps of the area around Vegas to, say, a 100-mile radius for starters. Please."

Glad to be able to help, Ali went over to the old map cabinet with its broad shallow drawers and scanned the labels in their little metal holders. She fished out some maps, sorted through them carefully, neatly folded the required ones and handed them to Greg. He dashed out clutching the maps, before remembering himself and turning back with another grin and words of thanks.

Back in the A/V lab Grissom was quiet and Archie frustrated. The tech was muttering, "C'mon, c'mon, come _on_!" as he waited, apparently for the computer to re-boot. Greg decided not to ask why.

Grissom looked much the same as before, except for the bottom lip curling into his mouth which he was worrying with his teeth. He had wheeled over a chair and was sitting to Archie's right.

Greg deposited the maps on the table near the door and stood by quietly. The system having at last restarted, Archie opened the browser and went to his bookmark. Log-in was successful the second time around and then they waited for the locator page to load.

"We're there." Archie handed his notebook over saying, "Grissom, can you read me out the string after 'SS'?"

"Uh, sure." Grissom put on his glasses and pointed his finger to the line of numbers. "Ready? Okay . . . 202 dash--"

"Don't need the dashes. Just the figures."

"OK. I'm going to say them in groups anyway. 202 456 1414 20500."

". . .20500," repeated Archie as he completed inputting the ID code for Sara's locator. He paused for a moment, finger poised over the Enter key, then hit it.

The screen flickered briefly, settled, went black for several seconds then a new page slowly started loading from the top down.

Unconsciously, the three men leaned in closer to the flat panel.

"Uh, good. See here, that's the serial number of her locator I just keyed in," Archie pointed to a line of red text near the top. "It says 'Device in operation'. That means it's turned on."

A big whoosh of air escaped Grissom's lungs; as he sucked more in, he murmured, "Good, Sara, good."

At last the screen loaded fully. The background was black, with faint green lines signifying roads and grey blocks indicating man-made structures or built-up areas. Down toward the bottom right–hand corner, in the middle of nowhere, was a blinking red dot.

Grissom reached out and touched the screen with a finger, obscuring the tiny red point of light for a second. "Sara," he breathed.

Leaning back, he pressed the finger to his lips and closed his eyes.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** Shocking news─I own neither CSI nor the characters, and make no money from my fics.  
**Spoilers?**: Post-episode to _Living Doll_.  
**Author's notes**: Updates may be less regular than previously, but I promise to finish this story before the new season starts. I'm running out of lines to use from _Don't Dream It's Over_, so bits from other Neil Finn songs are going to sneak into the section headings.  
**PhDelicious** beta'd this chapter and then I fiddled mightily with it. Hope you enjoy it anyway!  
With pre-vacation stuff I lost track of which reviewers I had replied to, so please accept this blanket thank you. I really appreciate your taking the time to leave a comment.  
**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 9**

**_. . . to the door of your heart _**

In the main hallway of the CSI building Nick was on his way to the trace lab, where he knew that Hodges would surely be itching to start examining the car miniature.

"Nick! Nick, come in here please!"

The gruff shout stopped him in his tracks.

Startled, Nick tried to cover his jumpiness as he backtracked to the doorway of the A/V lab. "Yeah, Griss?"

"We've got a lead. I'll need you to take me over to the helipad, as soon as Jim has set it up." Nick didn't query why he'd gotten selected for taxi service, but was pleased to escape a session with Hodges. As long as he had _something_ to do, he'd be okay. Memories of that Perspex box that had been swirling in his head since they'd learned of Sara's kidnapping, and activity was the best distraction he knew.

"I was just heading to trace─" seeing the determination on his supervisor's face, Nick stopped. "Uh, yeah, sure Griss." Nick looked from Grissom to Greg and Archie and back again to their boss. 'What's up?' was on his face, but the others were too absorbed to notice or explain. _Okay, time to go with the flow,_ he thought._ Maybe he'd find out on the way to the chopper._

"Yeah, got it, 20 minutes. Great, thanks Brass." Greg hung up the phone and looked at Grissom, checking. "You got that, right? The chopper will be ready in 20."

"Yes, that's good. Um . . .". Grissom's fingers tapping on the desk were the only outward sign of his tension. He paused, glancing around vaguely as he considered what else needed to be done. "Archie, you've entered those coordinates into the handheld GPS devices, right?"

Archie held up the units─two, so there was a spare, as per Grissom's instructions─and confirmed, "Yeah, locked in, you're good to go."

"Thanks . . . but stay on deck here in case there's any problem with them. Greg, nothing against, uh . . . the DNA tech, but if anything further comes up DNA-wise, I need you to be here to handle it."

Greg raised his finger in acknowledgment, and ventured, "Um, how about I help Hodges examine the, um, car miniature in the meantime?"

Grissom nodded in agreement and continued, "I'll go find Catherine, bring her up to speed. Meet you in 10 minutes by the front door, Nick?"

He rose as he spoke and was going out the door as Nick replied, "Sure thing, see you there."

Greg and Archie updated Nick, then he left to bring a truck around from the parking lot. He stopped it in the tow-away zone, with the rarely-used blue lights flashing, and dashed inside. He'd had a thought. _Several thoughts._ A few minutes later Nick jogged back, a clanking sports bag in hand, thankfully just ahead of Grissom who arrived with Catherine, Warrick and Greg close behind. Grissom had donned his CSI vest, and Nick wondered briefly whether he should have brought his too. But it was back in his locker and Grissom was already chomping at the bit. His polo shirt would have to do.

With words of support ringing in their ears, the two men piled into the truck and left for the helipad.

The helicopter was idling, rotors slowly turning, and in the safe zone on the edge of the concrete apron waited Jim Brass, looking solemn. He brightened a little when he saw that Grissom wasn't alone. He handled quick introductions to the crew, then the CSIs boarded, Nick stowing the bag under his seat. Grissom looked surprised to see Nick following him in, but didn't protest when Nick said firmly, "I'm coming with you."

Brass leaned into the open door of the chopper and muttered, "Take care of yourselves out there, guys." His eyes darted pointedly from Nick to Grissom, and Nick felt the weight of responsibility to look out for Grissom falling squarely on his shoulders. If Sara wasn't all right . . . _No_, he shook his head silently. _He couldn't think like that. _

Brass stood there awkwardly for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something further, then suddenly he straightened up. "Okay. You need to get going. I'll go back and see if there's anything more I can get out of Ms Davis." He slammed the door shut and hastened away, off the edge of the landing pad.

The dark-haired pilot twisted around in his seat to speak to them. "Folks, it'll be about a 15-minute flight to the coordinates you've given me. Put the headsets on—they'll cut the noise and let us communicate en route, then just strap in tight, sit back and relax."

Buckling up, Nick looked over at Grissom, who was sitting on the left behind the pilot, at the other end of the bench seat. His harness was already secured; he had tilted his head back, eyes closed, and for a moment Nick thought he was actually relaxing. Then he looked down—Grissom's right hand was clutching his portable GPS unit in a white-knuckled grip.

**_Won't give in _**

The little bouncing bird had been a great diversion, but now she or he seemed to have decided it was siesta time. And still Sara remained in her inhospitable spot. The ground beneath her was uniformly hard and irregularly lumpy. At least the all-over ache distracted her some from her concern about her cuffed arm. Whereas before she'd had welcome periods of respite from full awareness, now the constant discomfort was making her only too conscious of her situation. It was a waking nightmare which kept replaying on a relentless loop.

Murky clouds of despondency were swirling around her as Sara tried to wrest back control of her thoughts and emotions. Looking at her situation as a whole was no good; it was too easy for hopelessness to swoop in and take hold. In her peculiarly lucid state of heightened awareness, Sara knew that outright despair lurked nearby, a sharp-eyed bird of prey wheeling with ease on the thermals above as it watched and waited, calculating the optimal moment to strike.

Sara frowned at that mental image and wished that her little gray hopping friend would re-appear. That benign avian presence might help to dispel the hovering hawk which seemed to have invaded her mind.

Even now, she stubbornly refused to give in. The big picture was scary in the extreme. Instead, she had to break it down, edging her way through the horror in tiny pixels of time. Minute by minute, second by second.

It was high time for another attempt at zoning out. The process required focusing on a pleasant, calming idea. Sara had once tried a flotation tank—despite her initial concerns about claustrophobia, she had been able to relax and enjoy the stress-free quiet and support of the warm water. That was what she chose now.

She almost stopped herself; in her parched state, how could concentrating on something that required water be a good idea?

The hawkish specter started to creep in again and Sara cast aside her quibbles. The only thing that she could think of was the water-filled tank. _So, water it was._

_OK, eyes closed. Ten deep, deliberate breaths . . . _

Soon she was floating on her back, limbs spread star-fish wide on the moving liquid cushion of comfort. Her eyes opened to a broad sweep of starry sky; a crescent moon was rising. Velvet softness enveloped her weightless body as she slowly moved an arm, a leg, rolled her shoulders. Sara's aching bones and muscles melted into the pillowy support, so soft and giving. Her heavy eyelids fluttered closed. It was peaceful there, quiet. Sara blinked as she floated. The partial moon was growing now, filling in, forming a glowing orb in the distance. At first so far away, now it was coming closer, a bright luminous sphere in the dark. _Ah, the peace . . . _

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** I am a not-for-profit writer; some other lucky people own CSI and the characters.  
**Spoilers?**: Post-episode to _Living Doll_.  
**Author's notes**: Sorry for the time lag in posting─amongst other things, I finally started reading the _Harry Potter_ books, and of course there are seven to get through! Thank you for sticking with this story, and to everyone who's been so sweet as to leave feedback. As always, heap big thanks to beta **PhDelicious**.  
**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 10**

_**Don't dream . . . **_

"We're about three minutes out, guys." The calm professional tones of the pilot crackled through the head sets as the Bell 407 neared its target.

The desert was neither flat nor smooth, sloping into small gullies through which the occasional rains channeled, sometimes rising into lumpy hummocks and even large hills. Sparse scrubby vegetation was scattered across the reddish sandy soil, here and there clumping together in random groups. Rays of late afternoon sun angled over the uneven terrain, casting a confusing mixture of light and shadow.

Grissom's head was bowed, his eyes darting between the two-inch screen on the GPS unit and the scratched bubble window to his left. His voice tight and low, he asked, "Have you got a spotlight?"

"Sorry, what was that?" The co-pilot had been updating dispatch and neither he nor the pilot had caught the query.

Grissom didn't repeat himself immediately, and Nick glanced over to see why. Seeing the older man's uneven breathing and desperate swallowing as he struggled to control his vocal chords, Nick tugged his own microphone closer to his lips to ask the question for Grissom. "Have you got a spotlight, a searchlight in this thing?" He waved his hands around the interior of the helicopter.

The towheaded co-pilot looked confused—it would still be light for a couple of hours—but answered the question anyway. "Yeah, we've got two searchlights fixed to the outer skin, one forward and the other just below your seat." He pointed to Nick's feet. "We manipulate them using these levers—"

"Uh, no, I mean a portable light for . . .at the, um,scene." Grissom was able to speak again. "In case we need to look . . . under things—" his voice stopped abruptly and he turned his head toward the window, not wanting to break down in the goldfish-bowl of the cabin.

Seeing Grissom's distress, Nick cast aside his own dark memories. _He wasn't trapped now; he could help. _It was a great feeling.

"S'okay, Griss." Nick groped beneath his seat, feeling for the canvas bag he'd brought along. A muffled "Just a sec" was followed by a grunt or two as he tussled to unzip it, straining against the firm webbing of his five-point harness. Finally he got a purchase on the grab handle at one end and tugged the whole thing up onto the seat beside him. Opening the zipper, he rummaged around inside for a moment before letting out a quiet but triumphant "Yes!" A small satisfied grin on his face, he held up a halogen lantern.

Grissom had recovered sufficiently to look over. He formed his mouth into the semblance of a smile. When he spoke, his voice was nearly steady. "Good, Nick, thanks. My, uh, flashlight's battery is running low."

Nick nodded in acknowledgement, but Grissom was oblivious. He was again peering intently at the GPS unit then turning to look down through the lower portion of the window. Grissom spoke clearly into his mouthpiece this time,"Surely the three minutes must be up by now, aren't they?"

"Uh, yeah, we're just getting around behind this hill so we can approach through the valley." The pilot gestured to his and Grissom's side of the aircraft. "Keep an eye out on this side, Dr Grissom."

Nick knew the importance of balancing the weight in these sensitive machines. "Okay if I move over there too?" He indicated the rear-facing seat behind the pilot.

The co-pilot half-turned and gave him the thumbs-up, adding, "Hey, just stow that bag and all back under the bench before you move, will ya? Don't want loose stuff flying around."

Having done as bidden, Nick shifted over to the seat directly opposite Grissom. He automatically reached for the safety straps, pulling them over his shoulders, and was looking down to fasten the buckle when he heard Grissom's urgent question, "Nick, there, . . . am I seeing things?"

Grissom had shrugged off his own restraint and was crouching by the window, trying to get a better view. Nick joined him, following the direction of Grissom's pointing finger. Not just his finger, his whole body was leaning that way, as if getting an inch or two closer would make all the difference.

Nick peered down and immediately saw why Grissom was unsure. The helicopter was approaching from the south-east, flying almost directly into the descending sun, and it was very hard to see ahead. But . . . partly obscured from them by a low rise, out of place amongst the dusty desert hues . . . yes, that was a boxy shape, bright red on the flanks.

"Yeah, Griss, you got it! Down there, 11 o'clock, guys!!" Nick yelled excitedly at the crew.

By contrast, the pilot sounded cool, matter-of-fact. "Yeah, we got it too. OK, we'll do one circle around it to find the best place to set down, then we'll land this baby.

_**. . . it's over **_

The meditation was going pretty well, thought Sara, if you ignored the fact she wasn't supposed to be thinking at all. She was hoping to go to sleep again and escape reality for a while.

Suddenly she started, shocked out of her peaceful zone. Her heart was pounding against her ribs, pulse off the charts and she didn't have a clue why. _Was she going into convulsions?_ She lay there, trying to calm down and to figure out what had jolted her. _What?! There it was, again. But that wasn't her heart thumping─or was it? No─her pulse was still rapid, but it was settling. _

The thumping seemed to be coming from _outside_ of her hell-hole.

_Really?_

She was starting to feel hopeful. _Wait up, that floatation tank had seemed pretty real for a while there too. _Sara tried to quell her mounting excitement. When this rising hope crashed, she would be on a monster downer. But the thumping was . . . getting louder. And it sounded uncannily like a . . . helicopter.

_Okay, got to wait_—calmly—_and see what happens. Don't think. Concentrate on the sound, only the sound. _

The noise now sounded more like someone flapping a big piece of thin cardboard very very fast, or blowing a big fat raspberry—_a very metallic raspberry_, she was forced to admit. The sound was swirling around her . . . as was the sand! _This was no hallucination._

She pressed her lips together, scrunched her eyes closed and covered nose and mouth with her hand. The sound changed tone, then quieted. _It must have landed. _

Vague noises in the distance resolved into feet scrambling over the rough ground.

Voices, indistinct at first, became words. _They were calling her._

"Sara, Sara! Can you hear us?!"

"Erh-ehh." All that came out was a low grunt. _Damn._ Her voice wouldn't work. Sara was furiously coughing, hacking, trying to lubricate her parched throat. She took a deep breath and tried again. "Hey!" It wasn't very loud, but they had to be getting closer. "I'm here!"

There was some scuffling near her head, and she opened her eyes.

Nick, panting and red, was crouching down to look under the wreck. She reached toward him with her free hand, trying to wave. "Yeah, I'm here," she croaked.

"And so are we." Nick patted her hand. "Hey now, I got someone else here who wants to see you." He rolled away to give Grissom room.

"Wait, wait. Be careful!" Urgency had revived her voice. "The props aren't stable."

"Okay, honey, I see. We'll be careful." Grissom stretched out on his stomach alongside the Mustang, and gingerly extended his hand to stroke her cheek. He felt strangely calm now. _She was alive._ _She was alive and talking._

"Griss." She blinked. _It was a weird feeling when your eyes wanted to cry but your tear ducts were dry. _"Griss, I waited for you . . . and you're here."

TBC

* * *

**A/N:** It was fascinating to read several different readers' interpretations of the final para of chapter 9. For the record, I was trying to be a bit evil and pretending the bright light that Sara saw was part of a near-death experience . . . but remember, as Yogi Berra once said, "It ain't over till it's over." 


	11. Chapter 11

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** I still don't own the characters. And really, who would pay for this stuff?  
**Spoilers?**: Post-episode to _Living Doll_.  
**Author's notes**: Apologies for the delay in updating. I found the final chapters hard to write, but they're basically done now, and will be tweaked and posted as soon as real life permits. Thanks so much to **PhDelicious **for finding the time to beat this chapter into shape.  
**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 11**

**_Get to know the feeling _**

The precarious nature of the props was a grave concern. After considerable deliberation Grissom had regretfully determined that it was too risky to try to open the trunk and find the handcuff keys.

Nick had gone back to the helicopter to update the crew so they could call dispatch to get them to send the lifting and cutting equipment out to free Sara. Grissom refused to leave her, so they were lying there—one under and the other alongside the Mustang—holding hands and listening to each other breathe.

Grissom was silently berating himself for not having thought about gear they might need while he was back in Vegas, but at the time he had been laser-focused on finding Sara, and desperately hoping that she was alive. Those hurdles surmounted, all he could do now was help her wait. He squeezed Sara's hand as a thought occurred to him. "What was I thinking? Are you thirsty? You must be thirsty."

"Uh, yeah," Sara almost sniggered. "I've been obsessing about drinking for hours. You came along and I completely forgot. You're a really good distraction; you know that?"

It pained Grissom to think about it, but it might be hours before the heavy equipment could reach them. He would need to distract her for a while longer yet. She was in a hellish position, the crumpled roof of the car just inches above her, and the sight was sickening. _How must she have felt for those hours of solitary waiting, hoping? _He swallowed convulsively, noticing with dread the increased salivation that generally precedes vomiting.

"I'm going to let go of your hand for a moment, all right?" Grissom didn't want to break the connection, but he needed a diversion. "Just to get you some water."

"You won't go . . . anywhere, will you?" Even as she spoke Sara loosened her grip. In both heart and mind she knew he wouldn't leave her, but she was feeling so needy that she couldn't stop her desperate entreaty. Grissom's hand was hot and sweaty, and she was clinging to it like a lifeline.

"Nope, I'm not leaving. You couldn't drive me away." He was surreptitiously taking in deep breaths and averting his eyes from the menacing vehicle. As he focused on their clasped hands the nausea seemed to abate. "Nope," Grissom repeated, "I just need both hands to get my water bottle out."

She released his hand fully and he rolled over onto his back. While he'd been lying on his front, the contents of his vest pockets had been digging into his stomach and ribs; he was ashamed to admit that it was the discomfort which had first reminded him about the drink.

Experience had proved that the two-handed approach was the best way to rip the Velcro on their vest pockets apart. Holding the bottom edge of his vest with one hand, he tugged the flap open with the other. Thumbing open the valve on the small bottle he handed it to Sara. "It's not full, but I'm sure they have more in the chopper. You know the drill anyway, just small sips to start with."

She sipped carefully, swirling the liquid around in her mouth before letting it slide down her throat. After a few moments, she handed the drink back. Grissom squeezed two squirts of water into his own mouth then set the bottle between them in the shade. Then he proceeded to empty his vest and pants pockets: keys, wallet, latex gloves, tweezers, a squeeze bottle of phenolpthalein—Sara watched with fascination as the small mound grew—two fingerprint brushes plus powder, Maglite, swabbing kits, a messy ball of string, a myriad of tiny paper evidence envelopes and plastic bags, a soft pack of moist wipes and a battered, credit-card sized leather folder.

Sara had a feeling that she was going remain trapped for a while yet, but the end was in sight. And Grissom was there, so solid, calm and reassuring—not having to be her own cheerleader any more made the world of difference. Looking at his collection of miscellany was so much easier than trying to be strong, waiting in hope of rescue. Besides, she'd always marveled at how much stuff Grissom carried on his person, but had never quite gotten round to delving into the depths of his pockets.

"God, Griss, how many bindles does one person need?!"

He shrugged, smirking at her. "You 'borrow' so many from me, I have to stash for two. Anyway—"

Grissom stopped; voices were approaching. He tucked the small leather folder back into the upper right pocket of his vest, brushed her lips with a finger kiss and whispered, "I'll tell you later. Will you be okay if I get up to talk with them?"

"Yeah, I'm good now." She gave him a small smile. "I know it's impossible to get rid of you."

He scrambled to his feet to see that Nick and the co-pilot were nearing the Mustang. The aviator ducked down to introduce himself to Sara.

After a moment of pleasantries, she had learned that the newcomer's name was Bo; he was the helicopter co-pilot and a Search and Rescue specialist. He had a soft Southern twang and exuded calm confidence.

"You've found me; go right ahead and rescue me," she urged, pleased with her composure.

"Yeah, that's my plan." Bo called over his shoulder, "Hey, Nick, pass me that light of yours, will ya?" He explained to Sara, "I'm just going to take a look at your situation, okay? Nick told us about it, but seeing is believing, y'know?"

After carefully playing the beam around Sara to get a thorough view of her circumstances, Bo patted her on the shoulder saying, "I just need to have a moment with your man there. Don't go away, y'hear?"

Sara dutifully groaned at the cheerful guy as he straightened up. She knew full well that rescuers tried not to talk about a trapped victim's predicament within his or her hearing, if they could possibly avoid it. To her surprise she found that she was grateful for that protocol; she didn't want to get depressed all over again if she could help it.

"Hey Nick, I agree." Bo pointed down towards Sara, silently suggesting that she could do with some company.

"Good, and I gotcha," replied Nick as he crouched, then lay down to get into Sara's eye line.

"Grissom, can I have a word with you?" Bo gestured away from the vehicle and started walking.

Nodding, Grissom followed him to a sandy hollow around ten yards from where Sara lay.

"Uh, apparently there's something you need to run by me, so out with it." Grissom stuffed his hands deep into his pants pockets, noting how strange it was to have nothing in them, and braced himself for whatever was to come.

"OK, sit rep. We've called in a crane to lift the vehicle, but those things don't move fast. With this terrain, plus it's getting dark soon, it could be midnight by the time they get here. We had some rain earlier, and the forecast is for torrential downpours in the next few hours. That could slow down the heavy equipment, and there's also another potential problem." He hesitated, wondering how to phrase it. Even if Nick hadn't already told him, Bo had seen in a few seconds that the connection between Grissom and Sara was not purely professional.

Grissom held up a hand and saved him the trouble. "There's a flash flood danger, isn't there?"

Bo nodded, silently thankful for Grissom's quick grasp of the situation.

Grissom continued, "I can see the darker patches on the ground and the channels where the water flowed from that storm this morning. Given the lie of the land, with enough rain this whole area looks like it would turn into a wash—"

"Yep, an instant river. As I told Sara, SAR work is part of my job. What I _didn't_ say to her is that I know of hikers being drowned in this area." He paused, sucked in a deep breath, and went on, "I checked before we came out here, we can expect four to six inches inside a couple of hours . . ." He looked at Grissom, and saw the message had been received with crystal clarity.

Grissom looked at his toes for a moment, then raised troubled eyes to the younger man. They heard laughter coming from under the car and Grissom smiled faintly. _Nick was doing a good job over there._ "I want . . . we _have_ to get her out before the rain comes. But how?"

To Grissom's surprise, Bo smiled at him.

"Nick has an idea, and I think it may just work."

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** You know this already: the characters aren't mine.  
**Spoilers?**: Post-episode to _Living Doll_.  
**Author's notes**: I was keen to post this _before_ the season 7 finale gets re-played on US TV tomorrow night; I've been peering at screen caps of _Living Doll_ way too much as it is. A big thank you to **PhDelicious **for her beta work but, as always, if anything seems particularly odd it's down to me. Thank you also to all those who have left feedback during the course of this story; I really appreciate it.  
**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

* * *

**  
Chapter 12**

**_. . . the feeling of liberation and release _**

Grissom raised his voice so that it would carry. "Hey, Nick, can you drag yourself away from Sara for a moment? I'm starting to get jealous."

Sara's lip quivered as she tried to smile; Griss was trying so hard to keep things light and it was just what she needed.

"Gotta go, Sara. We won't be far though."

"Yeah, and I know you're working on getting me out of here—trust me, I won't stand in your way." She rolled her eyes at the incongruity of that phrase. "Eh, you know what I mean."

"Sure do." Nick grinned sympathetically as he patted her hand then rose to his feet. "One of us'll be right back."

Nick left her to join the others, and—Sara presumed—together they discussed her situation. She wasn't really trying to hear their words, but couldn't avoid picking up on variances in intonation. And, after all, she was very interested in the subject matter.

She caught Grissom, sounding doubtful, asking something about "—in the helicopter?"

Then Sara clearly heard Bo saying, "Nick brought them."

She heard Grissom again, his tone measured now, probably suggesting something. He was good at taking people's raw ideas and refining them.

Whatever he said seemed to be met with whole-hearted agreement. The group soon broke up, the two young men heading back to the helicopter while Grissom returned to his station beside Sara.

---------------------

The pilot came back with the others, having advised dispatch that he would be out of radio contact for a period. Bo was carrying a light rescue stretcher and Nick was toting his canvas bag.

Once Allen had met Sara, they set to work.

Grissom gave Sara an optimistic summary. "Honey, it's a simple plan. We have a car jack, and we're going to put that in place to support the car. We're going to supplement the jack on either side with props cut from the frame of the helicopter's rescue stretcher, then we'll reach under and cut the chain linking the handcuffs. We have to make the vehicle steady before we risk any jolts with the cutting. You'll still have the cuff on, but—"

"I won't be tethered any more. Sounds like a great plan to me."

Grissom started gathering all the latex gloves he could find in his personal stash—the extra props had been his contribution to the plan, and the gloves were to act as cushioning and provide grip.

While Bo cut the webbing fabric and stripped it off the stretcher, Allen stood by with a set of bolt cutters. Then they paused, literally scratching their heads, as they debated how to cut the steel frame into pieces of the right length.

"String," came from under the car.

"Say what?" Bo crouched down to talk to Sara.

"String. Grissom has string. You can use that to measure the required length. It'll be more accurate than doing it by eye."

Warm pride choking his throat at Sara's presence of mind, Grissom fished through the pile of things he'd emptied out of his pockets and lobbed the ball of string to Allen.

Soon the rails were cut to size, with gloves duct-taped to each end to help provide purchase against the vehicle's carcass and the hard earth. The aircrew took up posts one either side of the vehicle and Grissom got up to join Nick at the back end to position the jack near the edge of the trunk. The front of the car was nosed into a slight rise, making the rear end the obvious one to work on.

Pointing what he thought was a likely spot on the wreck, Grissom said, "Okay, that looks like it should be the fulcrum. Start cranking it up, Nicky."

Nick breathed in deeply, trying to stop the adrenaline-fuelled trembling of his hand. He started carefully working the lever, gradually raising the device. As the top of the jack approached the car body, he slowed his action and everyone held their breath. Millimeter by millimeter he edged it closer until contact was achieved. At a tiny metallic clink he halted.

Grissom hunkered down to inspect it. "One more very slow crank should do it—no, half a crank."

The jack's grip tightened, but the car didn't move. Nick stopped, heaving a sigh of relief.

"Good, good. Now guys, as we discussed," continued Grissom. "Each put your prop under the car angled towards the rear then cautiously straighten them forward into place."

As Bo was nudging his piece of rail in, the wreck gave a tiny, terrible shudder.

Everybody froze.

After a few seconds of silent dread, the car seemed to settle and the panic passed.

Grissom cleared his throat. "All right, we have three points of support. That's the tricky part over." That wasn't strictly correct—the whole procedure was fraught with risk—but it was certainly progress in the right direction.

"Now we can cut the cuffs." He moved round to the driver's side of the vehicle, lying down so his body was alongside the trunk area, to leave room for the others to work.

"Sara, I'm going to support your cuffed arm so it doesn't fall hard once it's free. Nick, you ready?"

Nick was prone near the steering wheel, bolt cutters in hand, with Bo close by. "Uh, almost. Bo, could you direct that light a smidge to the left . . . yeah, and about an inch higher. Got it! Right there."

On the rise behind Grissom's shoulder Sara caught a sign of movement. It was her little grey bird friend, hopping around in its cheerful way; Sara decided to take it as a good omen. "Okay, Nick, I'm still like a statue. Go for it."

An anticipatory hush fell over the scene.

A metallic _scrunch_ broke the silence, and a hissed "Yes" came from Nick. Grissom heard Sara's stifled sob as he carefully lowered her left arm, free at last.

He wriggled closer to whisper, "Okay, honey?" When Sara didn't immediately respond, his eyes darted everywhere in the dim light while he wondered what to do, what to say.

Sara seemed to be gasping for breath; he hoped it was due to a rush of relief.

She clumsily lifted her arm, the metal restraint still fastened around her bony wrist, and carefully moved her hand over to caress Grissom's cheek. "I can barely feel you, but I'm _so_, _so_ glad you're here by my side. All the same, how about we get me outta here?"

"Uh, yeah, of course. Just a sec, all right? I'll pull you out."

Grissom scrambled up onto his knees and around to the back of the car. Peering underneath again, he was reminded just how limited the space was. He called Nick over. "Hey, give me a hand, will you? The easiest way to get Sara out will be to pull on her legs, but I can't get close enough to use both of my hands."

They got themselves into position.

"We'll do all the work, Sara, just relax, okay?" Grissom's measured tones were strained. "Nick, I know you'll be careful, but, uh, please make sure you don't bump the car."

"Yeah, I know Griss, no worries." The Texan's steady voice was reassuring.

"Uh, Sara, it's going to be an undignified tug—"

Grissom's concern was sweet, but excessive. Sara squawked, "You think I'm worried about dignity here?!"

---------------------------------

The helicopter crew had melted into the background once they'd seen that Sara was basically okay. Nick saw they were lurking behind a brush-covered mound, and decided to join them.

Before he moved off, Nick looked once more at the entwined couple. He felt a little like a voyeur—they were completely exposed, naked emotion driving them. The thin veneer of calm control which Grissom had worn during the rescue had been completely stripped away and now he was operating on the most basic of instincts: _protect the one you love_.

Grissom sat on the ground, leaning against a boulder about 10 feet away from the wreck; his arms around Sara's slender body, cradling her in his lap, and softly rocking her. Sara was holding her left arm protectively against her abdomen, but her other arm was clinging tightly around Grissom's shoulders. Her lanky legs were folded up close to her body, as if to include them in the intimate clutch; her face was buried in the curve of his neck. He moved a touch from time to time to murmur words of comfort and reassurance into her ear.

Tear drops leaking out from Grissom's closed eyes left tracks on his dusty cheeks, and Sara's heaving shoulders calmed gradually as her sobs of relief faded. Grissom's right hand made soft circles on Sara's back.

Nick coughed a couple of times (dusty desert, he told himself), trying to clear his throat. Neither looked up.

"Uh--um," he muttered, under his breath. "I'm going back to the chopper to report to dispatch ."

He moved off, beckoning to the fliers to follow him.

* * *

_An epilogue will follow._


	13. Chapter 13

**Wherever You Are **

**Author:** wobbear  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** I am a non-profit organism, but the chopper crew are mine.  
**Spoilers?**: Post-episode to _Living Doll_.  
**Author's notes**: I wanted to wrap this up before the season 8 premiere and yay I made it! Thank you muchly, merci beaucoup and grazie tanto to **PhDelicious **for her beta work throughout this story. Thank you also to all readers and reviewers: hope you enjoy the ending. Fingers crossed for Sara tomorrow night.

**Summary:** 'If you're going through hell, keep going.' (Winston Churchill) GSR.

**

* * *

**

**Epilogue**

**_Better be home soon _**

The rain had arrived. No mere shower, the water fell in liquid sheets, churning up the desert floor, forming rushing rivers around and under the over-turned car. The Mustang was a metallic red and black island in the midst of a roiling murky world of danger.

But Sara was safe at last, and relatively sound.

At the first drops, Nick and the chopper crew had hurtled back from the helicopter; their earlier idea of giving Sara and Grissom a little personal time was easily trumped by the fear that their lives were in danger from the impending flooding.

Despite protests from Sara that she could walk, Grissom had wanted to carry her. In the end they compromised, Nick and Bo making a seat with their hands to carry her to the shelter of the Bell 407. After a moment's stumbling backward in front of them over the uneven terrain, Grissom's common sense had prevailed, persuading him that he didn't need to see Sara's face every single moment to be reassured that she was living, breathing. He followed close behind, stretching out his hand several times to touch her back.

Heads bowed against the sluicing rain and eyes to the ground, the little group had picked their way carefully through the hummocky desert, balancing their desire for speed with the need for safe footing.

As they neared the helicopter Allen, the pilot, accelerated ahead of the little group to open the door to the cabin and they piled in—Nick jumped up first, holding a hand down to Sara, and Grissom nudged his way past Bo, who was about to give her a boost.His hands on her hips, Grissom lifted Sara into the helicopter and scrambled up behind her.

Everyone settled on the firm seats, gradually winding down after the rush for cover. Slowly pulses calmed and breath was caught. As hair dripped and clothes steamed, Allen opened one of the doors on the lee side to reduce the sauna effect. Grissom's supply of Wet Ones was pressed into service for rudimentary clean-up, though the rain had already made a good start. Bo's sizeable stash of Extra Dark Hershey's was taking a beating too.

With visibility down to scant yards and viciously gusting winds, they couldn't take off. The weather was delaying the ground party too; there was nothing to do but wait it out. The good news was that the helicopter was on high ground.

---------------------------------

Muted speech wafted out of a portable satellite radio from its position on top of the cockpit dash. The crew was listening as their teams battled at Wrigley Field, where the Cubs were at home to the Braves. Occasionally the streaming rain swirled on the wind and interrupted the program; any gaps were filled with their constant banter as they played Blackjack. Night was falling in the storm-darkened sky so Allen had turned on all the reading lights to provide a low level of illumination.

Nick slouched on the rear-facing seat behind the pilot, his legs extended underneath the bench seat across from him. Quarters were close inside the helicopter cabin, very close, but he was furnishing his friends as much privacy as he could—eyes closed, he was working through the entire Dixie Chicks collection on his iPod.

Grissom was diagonally across from Nick, at the far end of the long seat that formed the back of the cabin, half turned to lean against the side wall of the Bell. His feet were propped on the corner of the seat opposite and his left arm was snug around Sara's waist; in his other hand he held a half-full bottle of water.

Sara was half-lying beside Grissom, using his chest as a rather firm pillow, with her legs stretched out along the seat. Her sore arm was cradled against her chest in a protective sling, courtesy of Bo and the SAR medical kit. Codeine had taken some of the edge off her aches, but she welcomed the needling jabs to an extent as they meant that blood was slowly finding its way back through her numb arm.

The bottle was being waggled in front of her face yet again. Gil was going overboard with the rehydration thing. Yes, Sara knew that she needed to take on fluid, but frankly she wanted to avoid the inevitable result of liquid loading. It was pelting down outside; going outside and getting wet again was way, way down on her list of desirable activities. Occasionally he sipped from the bottle too—it was probably a ploy to get her to drink more, but at least the water level was going down.

They were both exhausted, just hanging on until they could go home. But there was something she had to say. She croaked, "It was a woman."

"Whuh?" Grissom had been savoring the joy of being able to hold Sara again and hadn't quite heard what she said.

She coughed away the frog, determined to tell the little she knew. "It was a woman, a young woman, who kidnapped me."

"We know, honey, we got her."

"Still not sure how she did it . . ."

Belatedly his words filtered through.

"You _got _her?!

Grissom sighed; he couldn't help wishing they had found Natalie sooner. "Uh, yeah. Long story. The miniature killer was one of Ernie Dell's foster daughters. But she wouldn't tell me . . . anything, not anything useful."

"Huh."

Remembering that frustrating interview, he continued, "Well, she did say that she hadn't killed you, but I didn't know whether to believe her or not. I hoped . . . I hoped."

"Yeah, me too." She was too tired to be interested in the detail right now; that could wait. Maybe she should have another sip or two, keep Griss happy. Sara reached for the bottle, and he readily put it in her hand.

_But hold on_ . . . Sara's insatiable curiosity overrode her weariness. "How did you find me then?"

"Your GPS locator strip, in your vest. Greg—"

"The Wrigley Widget worked! I was hoping so hard that one of them would think of it."

"Yeah—" he bent to kiss her damp tresses, "Lucky for us, Greg remembered. And it worked." He chuckled, shaking his head. "And now Archie has squirmed his way back into my good books."

"Go Lab Rats." She smiled, thinking back. "Because it was, uh, unofficial, I agreed to them not telling you until we'd done six months of trials, but then you went east, the serial killer kept striking . . ."

Grissom shifted slightly underneath her. Done with the water for now, she handed it back, twisting round to look at his face. But he averted his eyes and was pretending to look out through the curved bubble window beside him.

"Gil, what is it?" She didn't use his first name very often; when she did, it meant she would insist on an answer.

He slowly shifted his focus to her red-rimmed eyes. He blinked a couple of times, but held the contact.

Grissom raised his right eyebrow briefly, then firmly squashed his old tendency to dissemble. She deserved his honesty, always—now more than ever.

"Um . . . I think I outed us."

"Well, sure, Nick knows, but he'll keep it quiet if we ask him to."

"Uh, no." He shook his head in emphasis. "I blurted out something, in front of everyone, when we were trying to figure out a motive for your abduction."

Sara looked at him; he seemed at once embarrassed and defiant, a tinge of pink flushing his cheeks.

He pressed his lips together, and then started to speak. "I said—" He cupped her chin, turning her ear closer to his mouth, and whispered softy.

"You . . . _really_?"

He nodded, smiling shyly.

"Wow."

"Uh, yeah." He shrugged. "So, they know."

"Everything?"

They were speaking very quietly and under cover of the storm, but even so he paused to check what the others were doing. Satisfied that they were distracted, he murmured, "Well, I didn't give them chapter and verse on our sex life."

She rolled her eyes. The likelihood of him ever speaking to their colleagues of something so private was . . . there was just no way that would happen.

"No, really." She tried to frown at him, but was filled with an irrepressible bubbling of joy that their relationship was no longer a deep secret.

"Uh, well . . ." Grissom tried to recall. "That's actually all I said, all I can remember anyway."

"Heh. Might make things interesting." She turned, snuggling closer and he re-positioned his arm around her.

"Hmm." He was surprised at how little he cared.

They were quiet for a while, dozing as the rain continued to drum down.

---------------------------------

A thunderclap startled them out of their stupor, and Nick opened his eyes. Looking across to the cuddling couple he grinned indulgently.

"You guys doin' okay over there?"

Grissom nodded as Sara stretched her free arm and yawned enormously. "I was doing fine until you woke me up, Nick."

He raised his eyes skyward as lightning flashed across the valley, and simply shook his head. "Nope, nothing to do with me, Sara."

She reached out for the water bottle which, as if by magic, appeared by her hand. Grissom rubbed his tired eyes.

Sara gave up on snoozing; the sky was too noisy and bright to sleep. "Hey, Nick, what did you bring?"

"Whuh?"

"When 'y'all' were talking about how to get me out from under, Bo said you brought something."

"Uhmmm . . . Yeah." He spread his hands out. "I grabbed some stuff from the garage at the lab, in case it came in handy." He didn't really know why he'd gathered that bag of tools. At the time it had been something to do, instead of reliving his own abduction while he waited for Grissom. They hadn't used the chisel, the saw or the monkey wrench . . .

Grissom cleared his throat. "Uh, Nick, I've been meaning to thank you. We couldn't have, uh, rescued Sara without your foresight. I—" His voice hitched, and Sara stepped in to help him out.

Attempting to imitate Nick's speech she drawled, "I'm guessin' that you were an over-achieving Boy Scout back there in Texas."

Grissom rested his cheek on Sara's head, closing his eyes.

Nick returned her grin with the three-fingered salute and thickened his accent, "Yes, ma'am, I surely was."

She paused, took a deep, calming breath and said, "Well, young feller, I thank you kindly." Sara's accent was still pretty convincing, but her tone was no longer joking.

"It was my pleasure." Warm brown eyes met, and wordless smiles of acknowledgement and appreciation said the rest.

"It was my pleasure."

The silent seconds stretched out and became awkward.

Nick shifted, leaning forward in his seat and grinned cheekily at the others. "You two know you're busted, right?"

Grissom blushed and Sara shrugged. "Yeah, I heard. It doesn't—"

Whatever she was going to say was lost when Bo stuck his cheerful face through the opening above his seat.

"You may not've noticed, but the weather's lifting. You folks about ready to leave, or d'you want to stay here visiting a while longer?"

Sara spoke for them all. "Let's go home."

END


End file.
